


Of Barfights and Blueberries

by folliesandfictions



Series: The Fan Shop [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Gen, M/M, No one is as good at baking as Bahorel is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:29:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folliesandfictions/pseuds/folliesandfictions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre says this is the last time he's cleaning up after one of Bahorel's fights. He says this every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Barfights and Blueberries

**Author's Note:**

> And today on 'I Didn't Realise How Much I Shipped This Until Discussing it on Twitter the Other Day...'
> 
> This might actually be the first time I've written anything creatively in years, so please do ignore the glaring errors I am sure are in there. It came up in conversation and I just had to get it on paper.

It was gone three in the morning by the time Bahorel made it home. He turned the key in the lock as quietly as he could, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges as he edged the door open and stepped through; for one short moment he managed to convince himself that he had gotten away with it, but the sound of a pointed cough drifting through from the living room told him otherwise. Arranging his features into something of a sheepish expression he walked in to face Combeferre.

The man’s clothes were rumpled and his hair was in disarray as though he had fallen asleep in his chair; from the television flickering through old Star Trek reruns near silently in the corner Bahorel guessed that this was probably the case. Despite this, his eyes were sharp and alert as he stood with folded arms in front of the coffee table upon which sat an open first aid box. Tight-lipped, he nodded his head towards the armchair.

“Ferre, can I just-”

“No.”

“You don’t-”

“Sit down, Bahorel.”

“But-“

“ _Now_ , please.”

“Combeferre, I have been home for less than a minute. Can I at least go for a piss?”

Combeferre sighed, head in hand. “Fine, but make it quick. I need to clean up that cut before it gets infected.” Bahorel gave him a grateful nod before turning and heading to the bathroom at the other end of the flat.

As he washed his hands Bahorel took a good look at his face for the first time since leaving the pub. He’d had worse, but it wasn’t exactly a pretty sight: his eye was beginning to blacken and there was blood matted into his hairline from a cut he didn’t recall getting. He dabbed the blood away as well as he could, his guilt increasing as the pale blue washcloth became slowly stained with red. When he had got rid of the worst of the mess, he headed back to where Combeferre was busying himself with a cotton bud and a bottle of antiseptic.

“Here,” he muttered, handing Bahorel an ice pack without looking up, “sit down and put that on your knuckles.” Combeferre straightened up, the swab in one hand and a tumbler containing an inch or so of amber liquid. “You’re probably going to want this too, this is not going to be pleasant.”

Bahorel took the drink, drawing a noisy sip as he sunk into the chair. “Right then, let’s get this over with.” He allowed the other man to tilt his chin back, angling his face towards the light, but drew back with a wince as Combeferre touched the cotton bud to his forehead. “Fuckin’ hell, Ferre.”

“Oh, stop whining. It isn’t that deep. Just drink your whisky and let me do my job.”

Draining the tumbler, Bahorel did his best not to focus on the stinging of the antiseptic; the adrenaline from earlier had worn off and he was starting to realise just how much he hurt. Combeferre’s frustrated sighs almost made him wish he had been able to creep to bed unnoticed, but for all his brusqueness there was a part of him that enjoyed being taken care of. Whilst it was certainly nice not to be the one doing the looking after for a change, he couldn’t deny the fact that he loved the opportunity to observe Combeferre up close engrossed in what he did best. His hands were firm but gentle as he cleaned up Bahorel’s wound with precise, well-practiced movements, occasionally darting to readjust his glasses. The eyes behind them were focused and steady; Bahorel took in every detail though they were already burnt into his mind, rich brown striations flecked with gold as they faded out into dusty grey-green. He toyed with his lower lip between his teeth as he concentrated, and Bahorel tried very hard to think of something else.

“So what happened this time, then?” Some of the sharpness had gone from Combeferre’s voice, though he was clearly still about as impressed as he usually was when Bahorel wandered home in the early hours covered in blood.

“Some mouthy little twat was trying it on a girl half his age who clearly wasn’t interested. I’ll not offend your delicate ears with what he started calling her when she said no, but I wasn’t gonna stand for it. Turned out he had a pretty mean right hook for a shortarse, but he definitely came off worse.”

“Did you ever think about maybe explaining to him the problems with his behaviour first?”

Bahorel shrugged. “Thought about it. Punching him seemed easier.”

Combeferre shook his head as he finished taping the dressing in place. “There. Now unless you have anything life-threatening you need me to see to imminently I’m going to bed. It’d be nice to get at least some sleep before my shift tomorrow.” He made to leave the room, but stopped as he reached the door and turned to Bahorel. “This is the last time I am doing this. I mean it this time. You can’t keep getting yourself beaten to a pulp just expect me to fix it. That’s not how this is supposed to work.” With that he left.

Bahorel listened to his footsteps disappear down the corridor, wishing he hadn’t finished his whisky quite so soon.

 

***

 

Combeferre awoke to the most wonderful smell drifting down the hallway. He was dimly aware that the other side of the bed was empty and for a moment felt the rising panic as he fumbled with his phone to check he had not overslept, but the blinking digits confirmed that it was barely past seven. There was only one reason Bahorel would be awake before him; with a bleary-eyed smile he threw on his glasses and dressing gown and shuffled his way to the kitchen.

“Morning! Coffee’s in the press, should be done by now.” Bahorel grinned up at Combeferre from where he crouched by the cooker, somehow managing to only look slightly ridiculous despite wearing nothing but sweatpants and oven gloves. Combeferre nodded his thanks and meandered over to where the cafetière stood, pouring and downing two shots in rapid succession before making his regular morning coffee. How Bahorel could be this cheerful so early in the morning he would never understand. When his brain finally felt like it could probably manage sentences, he turned to lean against the counter and face the other man.

“Don’t think you can win my heart back just by making coffee.”

“Of course not! That’s what these are for.” Bahorel opened the oven door; the smell of freshly-baked blueberry muffins was enough to make Combeferre forgive just about anything. He reached out to take one, but recoiled as Bahorel slapped his hand away. “Oi, no touching! How about you go and get ready and I’ll bring them through when they’re less likely to burn the roof of your mouth off.”

Combeferre chuckled. “It’s a shame, you were doing so well.” He pushed himself away from the counter, stifling a yawn. “You’d better not be more than ten minutes, or I might have to reconsider,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back to the bedroom.

When Bahorel backed into the room with a breakfast tray nine and a half minutes later Combeferre was convinced he had done it on purpose; his smirk definitely seemed to suggest so. Combeferre scooped up the papers and journal articles strewn across the bed and stacked them neatly on the desk to make space for them to sit. They ate breakfast in companionable silence for a while, but there was something itching in Combeferre’s mind that he needed to say. “Look, I’m sorry about last night,” he murmured. He saw the other man’s body tense, but this was the only indication that he was listening. “It’s just… I worry, Bahorel. What happens when I can’t fix you up? What happens when you pick a fight with someone out of your league, or they have a knife, or a gun, and I can’t do anything to help? I don’t want to wait up wondering whether the next person I speak to will be you or the hospital.”

The room was silent for a moment, before Bahorel sighed and raised his head to look at Combeferre. “Listen to me. That is not gonna happen. I’m not stupid, Combeferre – even if I might act it sometimes.”

“That’s not what I-”

“I know, I know. I know what you meant. And I’m trying, I really am. I just can’t help myself sometimes. I can’t promise this’ll stop happening; it’s just who I am. I’ll do my best though, if that’s what’ll make you happy.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow, his usual composure having being regained. “What would make me happy would be not having to wash your blood out of Egyptian cotton bath linen twice a week.”

“Point taken.” Bahorel laughed, a deep, warm sound that allayed any worries Combeferre had left – at least for the time being.  This was spoiled rather prematurely when he realised that Bahorel’s gaze was focused on something outside their window. “Uh, Ferre? Isn’t that your bus?”

“What?” Combeferre checked his watch, springing suddenly to his feel with a look of panic in his eyes. “Shit! This cannot be happening, today of all days I cannot be late…” He continued to mutter to himself as he darted around the room throwing books and papers into his bag whilst trying to wiggle into his coat with one arm. Bahorel’s somewhat amused attempts at catching his attention went ignored; it took a firm hand placed on either shoulder for Combeferre’s frantic state to subside.

“Look, I’m already up. D’you need a ride to the hospital?”

Combeferre’s relief was almost palpable. “That would be great.”


End file.
